


The Tail's Tale

by poselikeateam



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Changelings, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Italics, M/M, Multi, No Betas we die like Renfri, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Multiple, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, it's scratching but like it is still self harm so please be wary, like technically post-canon, now with part 2, soft as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Jaskier has always been odd. Humans are odd. Geralt doesn't think too much of it — until he does, and then he can't stop.Jaskier likes to eat raw meat, always covers his hips, sometimes has panic attacks because his skin is too tight, never outright lies, doesn't age, and had the strangest look about him when told Faeries and Changelings don't exist.They don't.Why does it feel like Geralt is trying to put together a puzzle whilst blindfolded?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 44
Kudos: 963





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hi, this is pretty much entirely self-indulgent. I couldn't sleep but I'd already taken my sleep meds so honestly I'm not even super bothered if this isn't as coherent as I currently think it is. The narrative is not linear, but I used so many fucking italics that I honestly couldn't be arsed to italicise the flashback-y bits. 
> 
> There is a single line from Waves of Panic by Corporate Hearts referenced in this song but other than that I've just been listening to my Geraskier Spotify playlist. At some point I will figure out how to link it, but not at this point.

Jaskier had always been odd, Geralt mused, but it was… he wasn’t really sure how to describe it. Different, he supposed, from the way that humans were normally odd to him. Spread out over the decades that he’d known the other. Sometimes things would come up that would have thrown him for a loop except, this was Jaskier. Jaskier was just… Jaskier. There was really no sense dwelling on it most of the time.

At first, he had given it more thought, of course. Well, that wasn’t entirely true — it was more that he was trying to figure out what was normal for humans, having spent so much time now isolated from them. He was sure that some of Jaskier’s quirks were not normal, but he figured that if it were actually a problem, his medallion would have let him know immediately. 

For example, the bard was something of a libertine; everyone knew that, even people who knew him by reputation alone. And yet, after _decades_ of traveling and bathing and sharing rooms together, Geralt had never, not once, seen Jaskier without pants on. It wasn’t as if he was desperate to see his cock or his arse, of course, he was just… it was odd. He knew that humans tended to have a _thing_ about modesty, but “modest” was the _last_ word he’d use to describe Jaskier, and still, he always had something covering his hips. 

Also worth noting, he had an odd way of speaking that Geralt wasn’t really sure why he even noticed in the first place. The bard would embellish things, spin tales, weave wild fantasies, but everything he said or sang about had some kind of basis in truth. He never outright lied, he never made something up from nothing. He was deliberately confusing, of course, and his silver tongue could say one thing and make an unsuspecting person think he meant the opposite entirely, but he never _lied_. Geralt, admittedly, was terrible with words and talking, and decided that just because he hadn’t noticed others speak the same way, it didn’t necessarily mean that they _didn’t_. 

Still, there were other oddities to the bard, like his eating habits — Geralt knew Jaskier ate raw meat sometimes, when he thought the Witcher wasn’t looking, but he wasn’t going to bring that up. He was probably just embarrassed for some silly, human reason, or maybe he didn’t want to explain what he thought was fine cuisine to the Witcher. 

He also _refused_ to tell _anyone_ his actual, full name. It was Jaskier, or it was nothing. That, on its own, wasn’t really too alarming; plenty of people had pasts that they didn’t want catching up to them, some for good reasons and some for bad. It was none of his business what his bard had once been; perhaps he’d had a terrible family. Perhaps he just didn’t want to be found. 

Then, of course, there was… a recurring incident. Geralt couldn’t help but think back to the first time he’d seen it.

**

Geralt was pulled from his meditation by something, but he wasn’t immediately sure what. He knew that it wasn’t a threat, but beyond that, he wasn’t really sure. He took a breath through his nose, scenting the air around him.

Stress.

Fear. 

Pain. 

His eyes flew open and immediately landed on Jaskier’s bedroll, alarmingly empty. Before he could allow himself a moment of worry, he heard ragged, uneven breathing, and his gaze fell to the bard. The younger man was pacing a hole in the forest floor, pulling at his collarbone, hands shaking. It was as if his own skin was a shirt that was too tight, and he was trying to pull it away. Even in the low light, Geralt’s Witcher senses could make out the red scratches Jaskier’s nails had left. 

Geralt stood, walking over to Jaskier, who did not notice him _at all_. “Jaskier,” he said, uncertain, putting a hand on the bard’s shoulder.

“No!” was the only answer he was given, his hand swatted away, the fear-scent spiking suddenly. While the bard couldn’t hurt him physically, he still pulled his hand away as if burned; Jaskier had _never_ been afraid of him. What had he done?

As if Geralt had spoken aloud, Jaskier shook his head, though he didn’t stop fidgeting, didn’t meet his eyes. “Not you. It’s. It isn’t you. I just. Touch. Can’t. Sometimes.” He shook his head. “Words… difficult. Like this sometimes. Can’t stop it. Just have to. Wait. Ride it out.” He hadn’t stopped scratching, tearing at his own skin, and Geralt wanted to reach out and grab his hands away — would have done, if he was sure it wouldn’t do more harm than good. 

“Stop scratching yourself,” he said instead, and Jaskier actually looked surprised. 

“Sorry,” he said, gaze flitting about but landing on nothing. “Didn’t notice.”

“I know you said words are hard,” Geralt tried, “but do you want to… talk about it?”

“Can’t,” Jaskier said, and then, “maybe. Don’t know. Feels wrong.”

“What, talking? You love talking.”

Jaskier laughed, but it sounded panicked, and Geralt hated it. “No. My… everything. Skin. Too tight. Wrong.” He shook his head again. “Sorry, I. I can’t.”

“You said this is… normal?” Geralt asked, uneasy. Jaskier shrugged.

“Happens sometimes. Can’t breathe, fuck.”

“How can I help?” Geralt asked him.

Jaskier shook his head. “Can’t. Just… need to wait. Maybe sleep. Probably won’t. Better tomorrow? Need to move? Fuck. Don’t know, don’t know!”

“Shh, Jaskier, calm down,” Geralt tried. “Breathe with me.”

He took the bard through several breathing exercises that he’d learned when he’d first taken up meditation. Thankfully, that did seem to help. At the very least, he could string together full sentences.

“Sorry,” was the first thing he said when he’d calmed down somewhat. His voice still shook, but he sounded a lot better. “Sometimes I… it’s difficult to explain. My skin feels too tight, like I’m trapped in it. Like I-I-I’m the wrong shape. Bits where there shouldn’t be, no bits where there should.” He shook his head. “I’ve tried putting words to it so many times but… I never thought I’d have anyone to share them with, and it’s always… so hard to think when I get like that.”

Geralt hummed, and that seemed to be a good enough answer for Jaskier because he was smiling now and even though there was still pain in it, it was finally real. 

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “It won’t pass until I’ve slept it off, I know that, but you’ve at least made that more likely.”

**

It had happened again a few times during their travels — probably more, but only a few times was it bad enough for him to notice. Each time, Geralt helped him breathe through it, even when Jaskier was capable of doing the exercises on his own. Geralt’s voice seemed to ground him faster, and he couldn’t let the bard suffer whatever this was alone.

Geralt had asked, once, if Jaskier was cursed. The bard had asked what he meant, and when he explained that he was talking about Jaskier's _incidents_ (though he hadn't seen one in some time, he knew they were still happening), the bard stared at him, eyes wide and round, and then laughed. 

“No, dear Witcher, I am not cursed,” he’d said when the laughter subsided.

“How can you know?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier simply shook his head. “I know what this is. It’s not a curse.”

“Then what is it?”

Jaskier’s smile was sad when he answered, “Nothing I can’t handle, nothing I can fix.” And he’d abruptly changed the subject, and just like that, he’d never let Geralt breach the subject again.

**

They had just spent a few months apart, which wasn’t strange in and of itself. Jaskier had left in a peculiar way, sure, but these things did happen. They had both made enough coin to get separate rooms, for a change. Geralt had woken in the morning and when he went downstairs, the inkeeper had handed him a sealed letter before he could even order breakfast. Jaskier had, apparently, been called away on urgent business. He would no doubt meet up with Geralt again soon, and was terribly sorry for not having said goodbye, but he had to leave immediately.

True to his word, they did meet up again and the incidents (what else could he call it, if it wasn’t a curse?) seemed to stop altogether. 

He knew that he should be thankful. It was obviously uncomfortable at best, and if it wasn’t happening anymore, that was great. 

Geralt couldn’t help but notice, however, that Jaskier started disappearing when he started to get twitchy, and usually didn’t come back for a while. When he finally did, he was his usual self again. 

“You’re not hiding it, are you?” he asked one night.

“You might have to be a bit more specific,” Jaskier answered, cocking a brow in Geralt’s direction.

“The… Thing,” Geralt said, unhelpfully, and when Jaskier went to open his mouth (more likely than not to make fun of him for his abysmal way with words) he added, “When your skin gets too tight.”

Jaskier stiffened a little at that, looking away. “No,” he said, and Geralt wanted to argue, but Jaskier never lied, did he? Still… “I’ve finally found a way to make it go away. It just takes a bit of time alone. I promise, you don’t need to worry.”

“Hm,” Geralt said, pretending to believe him.

**

Geralt wouldn’t have even started thinking about it if not for Yennefer. 

“How long have you two been traveling together?” she asked. On anyone else it would sound casual, but the way her eyes narrowed… Geralt wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was heading.

“A few decades,” he answered. “Haven’t really kept track.”

“Geralt.”

“Hm?”

“How old is he?”

Geralt frowned. “Not sure… Fifties, maybe? I told you, Yen, I haven’t kept track.”

She stared at him. Gaped, really.

“What?” he finally asked. 

“He doesn’t look a day over thirty, and that’s being _generous_.”

“He uses a lot of… creams,” Geralt answered, _very_ much not liking where this conversation might be headed. 

“Geralt. He isn’t aging,” she said, seriously.

Geralt wanted to laugh. He did. It was so absurd, but he wasn’t sure which part was more laughable — that the bard wasn’t getting any older, or that he had never fucking noticed. To his credit, Witchers did not age like humans, nor did they spend very much time with them. His Path was (supposed to be) a solitary one. Humans did not, as a general rule, like or even tolerate Witchers. So, he thought, he could (and should) be forgiven for not figuring that out sooner. 

“He’s probably part elf,” Geralt said, after a slightly-too-long silence. And that was the end of that conversation.

**

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“What do you know about Changelings?”

Geralt looked up from his ale, one eyebrow raised at the bard. “They don’t exist.”

If Geralt didn’t know better, he would have said that the bard faltered, but that would be stupid; the younger man was used to being told that his fairytales weren’t real by now.

“Right, of course. I just…” Jaskier looked out into the inn, rather than at Geralt, which was decidedly unnerving. “You’ve said that every fairytale has a bit of truth behind it. Surely, there must be something—”

“Sometimes children don’t turn out the way their parents want them to,” Geralt says. “They think they couldn’t have made something that wasn’t perfect, so it becomes another thing to blame the elves for.”

“Right,” Jaskier said again. “I know the historical basis of it, of course; I was asking more about, well, the Fae.”

“Don’t exist,” Geralt answered again, and Jaskier nodded. 

“Of course,” he said, and this conversation just kept going in circles, and why did Jaskier look so tired and smell so _sad_? “Well, I’m going to bed. No doubt you’ve a long day planned for us. Night, old friend!” And before Geralt could even reply, he was up the stairs and on his way to their room.

“Hmm.”

**

Faeries, of course, did not exist. Geralt was sure of this. 

Of course, he had also been sure that dragons didn’t exist anymore. He had been sure that Jaskier would have left his side after a day at most, and a frankly unbelievable amount of years and one dragon hunt later, here they were.

Jaskier never responded that way when he was told something didn’t exist, especially if he was sure that it did. He would insist, he would prod, he would cajole. He would make fun of Geralt for being wrong and not even knowing how wrong he was (his words, not Geralt’s). He was always playful, not… like this.

So, Geralt went to the bookstore.

Okay, it was a little more complicated than that — they first had to get to a town that had an adequate bookstore (that is to say, a town that had one at all). Geralt went through every book that had mentions of the Fae, every folk tale, every legend, myth, fable, fucking _bedtime story_ he could find. He went to _several_ bookstores (about three) before he finally realised he would need a library. He only knew of two libraries that he could access: one in Kaer Morhen, and one at the University of Oxenfurt. And since it was early summer… well. 

“Jaskier,” he rumbled one evening by the campfire.

“Yes, dearest Witcher?” he asked, looking up from his lute but not stopping his fingers from strumming.

Geralt hesitated for half a moment. “Do you have any business in Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier cocked his head. “Trying to get rid of me already?” he teased, though Geralt knew that even after all this time, he was still anxious that Geralt really would try to get rid of him one day; especially after the mountain, all those years ago.

“There’s something I need to do there,” he answered, “and I thought if we both had business there, it would be worth the detour.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier said, teasing. “What business does the White Wolf have in my territory?”

Geralt frowned at him. “The library.”

“Well, I am _definitely_ interested now,” Jaskier answered. His eyes twinkled in the firelight, and Geralt could almost see the stars in them. He pushed that thought aside immediately.

“I need a book. Or perhaps several. I’m researching a subject, and that’s all you’ll hear from me, little bard,” Geralt said, hoping that his joking tone would make him stop asking questions that he wasn’t quite ready to answer.

Jaskier shrugged. “It’s probably some monster, isn’t it? You need to learn more before going for a big contract? Oh, fine, don’t tell poor Jaskier — it’s not as if I won’t find out eventually.”

“Hm. So. Oxenfurt?” Geralt prodded.

“As if I would ever say no,” Jaskier scoffed. And that was that.

**

Usually, when Geralt was looking for a book, he was able to find it quickly. Of course, usually, when Geralt was looking for a book, he knew what the fuck he was looking for.

After spending what felt like a lifetime in the library, reading everything he could find that mentioned Fae or Changelings, he finally admitted defeat. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if it was important, if it had anything to do with anything, but… he couldn’t shake the memory of Jaskier’s face, that night when he’d asked. Something told him that it was important, even if he couldn’t figure out why or how. 

“How goes the hunt?” Jaskier had asked after the second day, and Geralt had only grunted in response.

Now, halfway through the fourth afternoon, he finally decided to stop looking. He would try, one last time, to talk to Jaskier — and if that didn’t work, he’d drop it until the bard was willing to bring it up himself. He felt like he was trying to put together a puzzle blindfolded, and it wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed. 

He sighed, making his way back to the room they were sharing. Jaskier was well loved in Oxenfurt, and they had been given free room and board. Well, Jaskier had been given free room and board, and his Witcher was also there. Geralt normally would not have wasted this much time reading dusty old books in a frivolous town but, again, Jaskier was well loved in Oxenfurt, and was making more than enough coin while Geralt sat in a library and tried to figure out just what it was he was trying to figure out. 

Jaskier was probably out, he thought, browsing the shops or flattering someone important or playing his songs on some crowded corner or another. He’d go to the room, get his pack, then make his way to the nearest notice board and see if there was any work for him. If not, he’d see how soon Jaskier would be ready to get back to the Path. 

However, when he opened the door to their shared room, he did not find it empty. He saw the bard, naked as the day he was born, back turned to the door — and he was going to avert his eyes to preserve the other’s modesty, only before he could, something caught his eye as it moved. 

“You have a tail,” he said dumbly, not quite registering that he was staring at the bard’s behind. 

Jaskier shrieked and spun around, eyes as wide as saucers, hands flying to cover the thing hanging from his back end rather than the one hanging from his front. Geralt did look away this time, sort of, focusing on the bard’s face instead of his cock. 

“Geralt!” the bard shouted, “I didn’t— you weren’t— you’re back early.” He had apparently decided on trying to feign nonchalance, though it was somewhat too late. 

“You have a tail,” Geralt said again, because he didn’t really know where else this conversation could go.

“No, what? Your eyesight must be going in your old age,” Jaskier tried to joke, though it fell flat with the acrid fear-panic scent coming off of him.

“I’m a Witcher,” he reminded him. “Our eyesight doesn’t ‘go’.”

“I—”

“Jaskier. Put some fucking pants on.”

“Right. Yes.” Jaskier laughed, forced. 

“We’ll have this conversation after.”

“Fuck.”

**

Jaskier was clothed, more or less, but no more comfortable. He paced the floor restlessly, and Geralt was reminded dimly of a certain night decades ago. 

“Jaskier,” he said, as gently as he could, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you _what_ , exactly?” Jaskier asked, tone bordering on hysteria. “That I have a tail? That would have led to ‘oh, great master bard, _why_ do you have a tail?’ And then I would have had to explain that I’m not as _human_ as you might have thought, and you would ask questions that I wouldn’t know how to answer — or worse, you’d _hmm_ at me and I’d have to _guess_ what questions I was supposed to be answering but couldn’t, and—”

“Jaskier.” He was firm, but not angry. “Calm down.”

“Calm down!?”

Before he could get started, Geralt wrapped a large hand around his arm, hoping that it was more grounding than frightening. “Yes. You’re working yourself into a frenzy. Calm down, and let’s start this from the beginning.”

“I don’t know what the beginning is,” Jaskier responded, sounding almost strangled. 

“What are you?”

There was a long pause.

“Jas—”

“Fae.” Geralt opened his mouth, and that seemed to get Jaskier talking. “Oh, I know. Fae don’t exist! Changelings don’t exist! Believe me, Geralt, I wanted to tell you, I tried! I had just found out and… I never wanted to keep it from you, but I didn’t know how to bring it up, and I couldn’t just say ‘oh, actually they do exist, surprise! Here I am!’ and take down my _fucking glamour_ —”

“You use a glamour?” Geralt interrupted.

Jaskier became quiet, subdued again. “This… isn’t me,” he finally said, after searching for an answer. “I thought it was, but it’s not. I… give me a moment.”

Geralt would give him all the time in the world, if it would help. 

“Okay. So here’s… everything,” Jaskier said, sitting down, gesturing for Geralt to do the same. Geralt sat, and Jaskier continued. “I always felt as though I didn’t belong. I know it sounds cliché, but I mean it. I felt restless. Sometimes, as a child, I would cry because I missed home, but I _was_ home, in my bedroom. The moment I was old enough I relinquished my birthright to some distant cousin or another and set off for Oxenfurt. I became a bard, traveled, met you. Not staying in one place, it suited me, it almost quelled my wanderlust, my need to search for a home that I had never truly known. I found home with you, on the Path. I was… okay, at the very least.

“I still felt wrong, but I couldn’t describe how. Some nights, I was more conscious of my teeth than I should be. They felt like they were the wrong size and shape for my mouth. My whole body felt wrong, like a suit I had outgrown and gotten stuck inside of. I’d always craved raw meat but couldn’t explain why. I was frustrated when my teeth couldn’t chew through it easily enough. You never said anything about me being a monster, so I thought it was all in my head. I knew it wasn’t a curse, because I’d asked at _least_ five different witches. 

“And then one night, we were staying in an inn. Two rooms, and I felt like I was going to tear out of my skin but it was such a rare luxury those days that I didn’t want to disturb your rest, and then I looked in the mirror and… There I was. Changed entirely, tail and all. I promptly panicked, of course, assuming that now I really had been cursed. I got my things together, hid under my cloak, left you a note with the innkeeper, and prayed that I would be able to fix this quickly.

“Then the memories started coming back. Little things — a hand in my hair, a lullabye I didn’t write, a home that wasn’t the one I’d grown up in. I went to another witch and this one — well, I suppose I was lucky, because she was like me.”

“A Changeling,” Geralt said, and Jaskier smiled wryly at him.

“Yes and no. I don’t know if Destiny brought me to her, or if our kind can find each other, or if it was dumb luck, but I found another one of us in a hut in the middle of ploughing nowhere. Some Fae live amongst humans of their own volition, some do not. Some Changelings come as babies or children and some come as adults. None of us remembers our old life until we are around twenty-five, when the glamour wears off. 

“We can craft new glamours, as adults, when we are aware of what we are. The problem is, we can hide everything but our tails.”

Geralt snorted. “That explains the uncharacteristic modesty.”

That actually managed to get a laugh out of the bard. 

“Are you wearing a glamour now?” Geralt asked, and the bard sobered immediately. “You don’t have to show me, if you don’t want.”

“I… Yes,” he said slowly. “I just… It really doesn’t look like what you’re used to.”

“You don’t have to show me,” Geralt repeated, “but you don’t have to feel like you can’t, either.”

Jaskier bit his lip, twisting one of the rings he always wore, and then, with a solemn nod, pulled it off.

Geralt felt like he was looking through fog, but only where Jaskier was standing — and then, there was something else in his place. No, he told himself, not something else — the same man, in a different shape. 

His skin was a dark grey, and his eyes -- they were still the same cornflower blue irises, but the sclera were as black as the pupils. His fingernails became claws, all of his teeth were longer and sharper (at least that Geralt could see). His tail, now that Geralt was able to pay it some attention, was like a cow’s in appearance but moved like a cat’s. His ears grew long and pointed, slightly longer than any elf Geralt had ever met. Small horns poked out from his forehead, no longer than an inch and almost hidden by his hair; that, at least, had stayed the same chestnut brown as it was before. 

“I, um, understand if… this is too much,” Jaskier said, after a prolonged silence. He smelled of sadness and regret. 

“What?”

“I only mean, well, you thought I was human—!”

Geralt snorted, shaking his head. “I assumed you were part elf,” he said, “since you never seemed to get any older.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, the apples of his cheeks becoming a darker grey, almost black. It was actually very fetching, Geralt couldn’t help but think. “You noticed.”

“Not really,” Geralt answered. “Yen pointed it out, about five, ten years ago.”

Jaskier barked out a shocked laugh. “You knew for this long and never said anything?”

Geralt shrugged. “Figured you would bring it up if it was something you wanted to talk about.”

“So you’re not… I don’t know, angry? Repulsed?”

Geralt was confused, now. “Why would I be either of those things?” 

“I don’t know!” Jaskier all but shouted, throwing his hands up. “I’m not who you thought I was? I’m something that shouldn’t exist?”

“You are exactly who I thought you were,” Geralt answered. “You’re the same person, just… greyer. And who said you shouldn’t exist?”

“You did!”

“No,” Geralt said, as if explaining something simple to a toddler. “I thought Fae _didn’t_ exist. I was wrong, clearly.”

“Oh.”

They fell into a silence more awkward than they’d shared in a long, long time. 

“I came here to find books on Changelings and Fae,” Geralt said finally.

“Why!?”

Geralt shrugged. “I remembered you asking about it, acting different when you did. Knew there were pieces to put together, but didn’t really know what or how.”

“You’re… more perceptive than I give you credit for,” Jaskier said, sounding slightly awed.

“I’d be dead if I wasn’t,” was Geralt’s answer.

They fell into silence again.

**

“Where to next, my dearest Witcher?” Jaskier grinned at him, just a hint of too-sharp teeth poking through. 

“Hm,” Geralt said, pretending not to stare. Over the years, the decades, he’d found the bard more and more beautiful. That day in Oxenfurt, long ago, had given him a new appreciation for the other, a new understanding. “Might want to get you a new glamour,” he finally said. “I think yours is wearing out.”

Jaskier sighed. “It is getting a bit old, isn’t it?”

“Yen could probably do it,” Geralt proposed.

A far-too-dramatic gasp from his bard had him rolling his eyes. “Yennefer of Vengerberg! That fiend would probably make it give out in the middle of a performance.”

“You can drop the act,” Geralt said, one snowy brow raised. “I know the two of you are friends.”

Jaskier pouted. “I will neither confirm nor deny this _ridiculous_ accusation.”

“I saw you drinking together.”

“Well, I’ll try anything onc—”

“Multiple times.”

Jaskier’s pout only deepened. “Drinking with someone does _not_ a friendship make,” he insisted.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend. I’ve heard the two of you talking about me.”

Jaskier sputtered and hit Geralt’s arm, trying to pretend he was far angrier than he actually was. The reality, though? 

He had finally found his home, between a Witcher and a Sorceress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, Yennefer has to find out, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not under the effects of sleeping pills this time, but I still don't expect it to be coherent. Big up to Lady_Darkside for suggesting this — honestly I hadn't thought of it, but then I couldn't stop thinking of it. How does Yen react to finding out Jaskier is Fae? 
> 
> Warning: This is super fucking soft lmao

They're at Yennefer's place — well, one of her places, anyway. It's a quaint little villa, all things considered; ivy crawling up the walls, a garden that looks like it tends itself, a short stone wall surrounding it all. Jaskier has spent an almost indecent amount of time sitting by the little fountain in the garden (because of course there's a little fountain, Yennefer is as aesthetically-minded as he is, though their aesthetics differ greatly) composing, or strumming his lute, or just basking in the sun. 

He likes this. No monsters to chase, no villagers to save, no wounds to patch up, no worries. Well, one worry, of course: the sorceress herself. 

Yes, yes, the two of them have reached a sort of understanding. It was bound to happen, with the whole immortality thing, and the small matter of both being in love with Geralt. These things tend to happen when both refuse to back down — that is to say, a compromise is made. A truce, one might say. 

**

Jaskier was in a tavern whilst Geralt was out doing his Witchering. It was still morning, so not many people were there, and the quiet thrum of conversation was a boon rather than a distraction, keeping him focused on what he was sure to be his best composition yet. That is, until—

"Bard," came a cold voice from behind him, and he forced himself not to react. 

"Witch," he replied, not looking up from his songbook, though his quill stopped scratching along the page. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He heard her scoff. "Please. You know as well as I do that we can't keep dancing around this."

"On the contrary, I am a master at dancing," he replied. 

"Yes, one of your many useless talents, I'm sure," she snarked back, and he allowed himself to bristle for a moment before forcing himself to relax. That was what she wanted, and he refused to take the bait.

"How kind of you to finally acknowledge the wide range of my talents," he said instead, ignoring the 'useless' bit altogether. "Now, if you could kindly fuck off, I would like to get back to enjoying my day."

Instead she sat in front of him, and he suppressed a groan. For a moment, he looked into her eyes. He was really hoping against hope that getting rid of her would be easy. They never enjoyed each other's company, and if it weren't for their mutual attraction towards Geralt they wouldn't likely have to interact at all.

"That is exactly what I am here for," she said, one thin brow raising. "This 'mutual attraction towards Geralt', as you so eloquently put it."

He did allow himself some outrage, then. "Stay out of my head," he snapped, eyes glaring down to the table. 

"Then allow me this conversation, and don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Jaskier huffed, but still refused to look at her. "Fine. Quickly, then — what do you want?"

"I know you love Geralt."

"So does half the bloody Continent," he shot back. 

"But not the White Wolf himself," she answered, and he froze.

"You wouldn't dare—"

"I would," she interrupted, "if I thought it might work in my favour. Instead, I'm making you an offer."

"You won't get rid of me that easily," he said immediately. 

She actually laughed, which really only added to his confusion and general frustration. "I've figured that out by now. Especially since he loves you back."

"You won't make a fool of me either," he said, though now he was... uncertain, off-kilter. This wasn't where he'd expected this conversation to go, if he'd had any expectations at all. 

"No, you don't need my help with that," she agreed, and he glared in the general direction of her, still avoiding her violet eyes.

"Speak plainly, then, so we can get this over and done with."

"I'm proposing we share."

"What."

He stared at her now, mouth gaping, mind running a mile a minute but unable to grasp onto any single thought. 

She rolled her eyes. "Geralt has feelings for you which run deep. He feels the same for me. It is therefore in his best interest, as well as the both of ours, that we share him."

"He's not some toy," Jaskier bit back. "You can't just— just _share_ a _person_!"

"I beg to differ, at least on the latter point. If not for your sake, think of him — does the Witcher not deserve love?"

Jaskier faltered. "Yes," he said, though agreeing with her made the word taste sour.

"And does he not deserve that which he desires most?"

Jaskier paused, thinking. Most men didn't deserve their deepest desires, he'd found — many were cruel, or selfish, or a thousand other unpleasant things. Geralt, though, he had never been like that. Whatever he desired most, it couldn't be terrible — and even if it was, he realised with a pang, Jaskier would give it to him if he could. "Yes, he does," he finally answered.

"He tortures himself over this," she said, finger running along the rim of a wine glass he hadn't seen her order. "He won't allow himself a love he doesn't think he deserves, let alone two."

Jaskier's heart broke just a little at that. "This isn't me agreeing," he said slowly, "but what exactly are you proposing?"

"You confess your feelings for him," she said bluntly, "and I reiterate mine. Frankly, if we team up on him, he'll be a lot easier to convince, and if we work together on this then he won't have to worry about whether we are both willing to share."

And he had no idea why her logic was so sound — maybe it was acting as a balm on his aching heart; after all, love makes one do crazy things — but he agreed. After all, it _was_ for Geralt's sake.

**

It's been years now — he isn't quite sure how many, because why keep count of the days rather than truly living them? He's honestly still surprised at how well it worked out. He even remembers the ensuing threesome with a sort of fondness. 

He and Yen were able to be civil after that — even friendly, with the right amount of alcohol — but they're hardly close. There's still a tension when it's just the two of them, which Jaskier can't help but find fucking unbearable. The air is charged with _something_ and it's stifling, like he'll suffocate if he stays in it too long, so he just... doesn't. 

Avoidance can't really help him when he and Yen are alone in her villa, of course. If she wants to find him, she can, and if she wants to talk, he can't really say no. So he can't help but sigh a little to himself when he sees her stride towards him with purpose. While she does everything with purpose, he's gotten used to her enough to be able to tell the difference between her usual level of intensity and the way she gets when she's driven by something. Now, it seems like the latter, so he sets down his lute and scoots over, giving her room to sit on the bench with him. 

"How polite," she drawls, elegantly taking the proffered seat. 

"Of course, m'lady," he answers with no small amount of snark, though it's missing the bite it once would have held. 

She snorts, and he feels... it's sort of friendly. Easy. He's not really sure what to do with that.

"So, we've slept together quite a few times, now," she says without any sort of preamble.

Jaskier reddens, just slightly. "Actually, I believe you'll find we've slept with _Geralt_ together," he corrects her, examining his nails. (They're spotless, of course, but he needs something to focus on, something _casual_ to hide how weirdly nervous he suddenly is.

"Semantics," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Regardless, we have now been in many situations in which one would certainly expect a certain level of nudity — that is to say, _complete_ nudity."

"You've never had clothed sex?" he asks, hoping to derail the conversation from where he knows (and dreads) it's about to go.

"Of course I have," she says, almost impatiently, "but I have never had _only_ clothed sex."

"Well, while your sexual history is very interesting," he starts, nervousness creeping into his tone, but she silences him with a glare.

"I've never seen you without your breeches," she tells him. 

"Perhaps you've simply forgotten," he offers, knowing that it's a weak answer. 

"Yes, and perhaps elves and humans will suddenly live in harmony."

"I don't know what you want from me," he admits quietly.

"I want to know why."

"No."

She frowns at him. "So there _is_ a reason."

"Yes."

"One-word answers?" she asks. "Our dear Witcher seems to be a bad influence on you, bard." It strikes him that perhaps she is trying to lighten the mood, and the shock of it has him barking out a short laugh.

"I don't know what else to say," he tells her. "I don't _want_ to say. It's mine to tell, and I want that choice. I didn't have it with Geralt." He speaks quietly, which is unusual for him. He is as earnest as he possibly can be.

"Alright," she says, standing fluidly. He stares at her in shock; he wasn't actually expecting her to just _drop it_. 

"W-what?"

"I said 'alright'. I hope your hearing isn't going — it would be _terrible_ for your profession," she says. "Keep your breeches on, tell me when you want to — I do expect an answer, but I can wait. After all, neither of us is getting any older, are we?" There's a glint in her eye, like she's baiting him, but he laughs. He already knew that she knew, after all. 

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

And that's that, for a while.

**

They've gotten closer. At this point, they're slightly past 'acquaintance', he thinks, if there is a scale for this sort of thing. Even if he doesn't quite trust _her_ , he trusts _Geralt_ , and Geralt trusts her. Plus, several years have passed, and she's remained true to her word: she hasn't brought up his lack of nudity in her presence once. 

And maybe that means it wasn't that important to her to begin with, but if it wasn't, she wouldn't have asked. At least, he likes to think so. And anyway, even if it isn't, it's important to _him_. He trusts her now, at least to a degree; is comfortable around her, moreso than he ever thought he would or could be. He wants to _show_ her that trust.

Maybe Geralt _has_ rubbed off on him, because he had always been a man of words over action. But this — he's only ever trusted one person with this, others like him notwithstanding. He'd meant it when he said he wanted to have the choice, just once, whether to share it with someone important to him. And isn't that a novel concept? Yennefer of Vengerberg is _important to him_. 

Gods, people really can change.

There's just one problem with his newfound desire to share his deepest secret: he has no fucking idea how. It's one of those rare moments in which he desperately needs the perfect words but knows that they will never come. How does one admit to being something that, as far as the other knows, doesn't exist? It's almost a blessing that he hadn't had to tell Geralt, he thinks, because he just never fucking would have done it. 

He _has_ to do this, though. And it has to be made very clear that he is doing this on purpose, that he trusts Yennefer with this part of himself. He's come to care for her, after all, and he wants her to know. 

Jaskier, despite what some might claim, is not a coward. He has spent most of his life following a Witcher across the Continent, into all manner of danger. He's told a sorceress to fuck off. Some (Zoltan) say he's brave to the point of stupidity. He has always run headfirst into danger without a second thought, but this? This is different in every way to what he's used to. He is uneasy. He is afraid. 

He knows it's irrational, of course. Of all the things to fear about Yennefer of Vengerberg, this doesn't even make the top one hundred. If she wanted to use this against him, well, good luck — even if she could manage to do it without pissing Geralt off and fucking up their relationship, his reputation is a fair bit better than hers. People don't fear him, they trust him, they like him. It also helps that sorceresses are often as mad as a bag of feral cats. No one in their right mind would likely believe her if she were to tell them. And all of that is even assuming that she would _want to_. He's known her long enough to know that she has too little to gain and too much to lose from something like this. 

So, no, it's not really that he's afraid of what she could do to him, because the answer to that is "nothing more than usual". Is he afraid of how she'll react? He doesn't think so. Most likely, it's the uncertainty of being laid bare, of trusting someone with the deepest part of oneself. It's the fear of the unknown, the unease that comes from doing something that has not been done. 

No, Jaskier is no coward, but he is not brave enough for this.

**

All things considered, it is a terrible and stupid plan.

They're back at the villa, with its beautiful garden and extensive wine cellar. They are alone again; Geralt had some contract or another that took him somewhere difficult to reach, and for once, he'd just agreed to stay here. The villa is nice, and being alone with Yennefer is bound to give him some inspiration or opportunity to finally fucking tell her.

The plan he'd finally landed on could hardly even be called a plan, but it's the best he's come up with so far and he's frustrated with himself so he decided to just go for it, and now he's _exceptionally_ drunk. 

It's always easier to admit things when drunk. Liquid courage, some call it, though he'd argue it was more liquid brashness or liquid stupidity. Still, it will hopefully serve its purpose.

"Yengerber of Venfifer!" he slurs, grinning widely as she enters the room. Great start. "Come, share a seat with your favouritest bard!"

She frowns. "You are exceptionally drunk," she tells him, as if he didn't already know.

"Yes, of course, I wish to show to you to the— a thing, my thing. Yes! Here!" He jumps up from his seat and starts wrestling with the ties on his breeches, but she's next to him and grabbing his hand and he frowns. "Yen—"

"Keep your bloody trousers on, bard," she says, looking at him like Roach has just shit on her rug.

"No, I want—" he frowns, shakes his head, tries again. "Yen, I have to show you. You asked."

"You don't _have_ to do anything but sober up before you make a mess," she tells him, stern.

"No, I must."

"Jaskier." He stops struggling, staring at her with wide eyes. She hardly _ever_ uses his name. "What is this about?"

"You... asked me, yearseses ago, why don't I take off my breeches for the, when we, fucking," he says slowly, trying to be more coherent than he feels like he can. "So I, I'm showing you, the why of it."

"You said you wanted the choice," she reminds him, sounding as if she were scolding a child for getting to close to the fire. 

"I did," he says, "and I made it. I _want_ to show you."

"You say that now, but you're drunk."

He shakes his head. "Decided sober. Couldn't, too scaryyyyyyy. Thought, I thought, yes! If I'm drunk I'm too dumb to be scared! So here, here I am, except— excepting— exaltular— very drunk."

She lets go of his wrist. "You really don't have to," she says, and if he were capable of much thought he would have said she sounded soft. 

"No, yes. I don't, but I do, for me. I want to." He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he's trying to remember how to make it work. "I care about-about you, and I wanted to show you. I just, I've never. I dunno _how_. Geralt, he, he seen my tail, on ass— ask— accident."

"Your what." It doesn't sound like a question, in the shocked, flat way that she says it, but it must be. It has a _what_ in it, after all. 

He grins at her, worry forgotten. "Yes, let me show you!" He finishes opening his breeches, somehow, but only shimmies them down enough so that his tail can peek over the top. 

"What is this, a curse?" she asks, frowning. Before she can use her magic on him, or whatever it is she does, to check for a curse that isn't there, he shakes his head.

He shakes it so much that he falls back down onto his chair with a quiet 'oof'. 

"No no, I has, I've has, um. This is my tail."

"Yes," she says, "I do believe we've established that. The question is _why_ you have one."

He frowns at her like she's speaking another language. "It's mine," he answers, as if that is the most obvious explanation.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Yes, it is yours. When did you get a tail, Jaskier?"

He frowns, trying to think it over. "Loooooong time ago," he finally says, nodding sagely. 

"And how did you get a tail?"

Jaskier shrugs. "I'm s'posed'a have it," he says. 

"This conversation is getting us nowhere," she mutters, clearly agitated. He wiggles his tail, happy to be able to, and promptly gets distracted by it.

"You're like a bloody cat," she sighs, though it sounds a little fond. 

He hums in consideration. "Got claws too, like cats got."

"I'm sorry?" 

"Don't be sorry," he says. 

She sighs again. "No, I mean... you don't have claws." She gestures to his perfectly manicured and perfectly blunt nails, and he laughs.

"I forgot, I forgot!" Jaskier sing-songs, fiddling with his ring. "Gotta— hey, hey, Yen?"

"Yes?"

"Can you, I don't wanna— I can't lose this," he says.

"Then don't take it off."

Jaskier shakes his head. "Gotta," he says. "Gotta show you."

"Show me what?" she prompts.

"M'self," he answers. 

At this point, it seems, she has decided to stop asking questions. "Alright," she says, "give it here, and I'll make sure you don't lose it, then."

He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh," he says.

She glares at him. "You _just_ asked me to hold onto the damned thing," she reminds him, irritation colouring her tone again.

"Y'gotta, gotta promise. _Promise_ to keep it safe."

Yennefer sighs. "I promise, bard. Now, please give me the ring?"

He smiles again. "Yeah, okay!" Jaskier pulls off the ring.

And then there's no more Jaskier.

**

Yennefer is not entirely sure what the fuck is going on.

She comes into her sitting room to find an unspeakably drunk bard, in the middle of the fucking afternoon, and almost immediately he's trying to get naked. This would be about on par for what she's come to expect from men, except, of course it isn't — this is Jaskier. For one, he isn't trying to sleep with her, and for the other, he's _never_ been nude in front of her, not entirely. 

And then he's bringing up a conversation they had _years_ ago, and she feels... almost guilty. He had made it clear that he wanted to explain on his own terms, and somehow she doesn't think 'blackout drunk' is the best way to make what is clearly a difficult and personal decision. 

She tries to get him to stop, tries to explain for his own good that he really, really needs to sleep this off and stop trying to disrobe, but he isn't having it. Apparently this was some kind of plan? She really hates men, she decides for neither the first nor last time in her long life. And then he says he _cares_ about her, and. Well. That's unexpected, as is the warm feeling it gives her. 

Of course, she has barely a moment to consider this warm feeling before he's going on about a tail, and she's decided that he has no fucking clue what he's saying until— 

Oh.

He really _does_ have a tail.

And she has _no_ idea what to make of this. Apparently he's had a tail for decades now, at least, so she supposes he was embarrassed by it? But he's not acting embarrassed. He's acting embarrassing, of course, but that's to be expected. No, he's acting like him having a tail should be as obvious as him having a nose. 

Just as she begins to get _really_ frustrated by the circular nature of this conversation, he starts playing with it, and... it's kind of endearing, which she hates. She's still trying to figure out what the fuck is going on when he rambles nonsense again and tries to give her his ring. Why he won't just keep the fucking thing on, she has no idea, but he is adamant, and then he isn't. 

She promises to keep it safe, trying to speed this along, hoping against hope that he'll either make sense on his own or sober up enough to make sense soon, but as soon as she takes the ring, he's gone, and in his place is a sort of fog that she can't see through, and just as she's about to start casting spells to defend herself from whatever has taken him—

There's a creature.

It looks like him.

Well. It sort of looks like him. It's also got long, pointed ears, grey skin, black sclera, horns, claws, sharp teeth... but somehow she feels like it's still Jaskier under all that.

Yennefer looks at the ring, feels the magic in it. A glamour.

"What the fuck?" she murmurs, brow furrowed, eyes wide.

He— it— groans, shaking his head and bringing a hand up to clutch at the side of it. "Fuck," he says, and maybe this isn't Jaskier because he certainly doesn't sound drunk anymore. "Fuck, I've never done that before."

"What is going on?" she demands, and he grimaces. 

"Wait a second, please. I've never, um, I've never taken my glamour off drunk, or tried to get drunk without it. Must change my insides too. I don't think Fae can get drunk."

"Fae?" she murmurs, and everything starts slotting into place.

"I, uh, didn't know how to... tell you," he says, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his (now very long-fingered) hands. "Surprise?"

"Start talking," she says, finally sitting down. She crosses one leg elegantly over the other and pins an expectant glare on him.

**

Okay, this wasn't _quite_ how Jaskier expected this to go, but he supposes he can roll with it. After all, the hard part is out of the way. 

"I'm a Changeling," he says quietly. "I didn't find out until I was around twenty-five and my glamour wore off. Er, when a Fae comes to our world — that is to say, this world, the one we're in now — they, or we, are given a more powerful glamour than we can create later. It hides the, everything. Tail and all. Once it wears off, we need something else, a new glamour. The first one is, I talked to a witch who was, well, like me. She thinks, or thought, that the first one, the one we come with, is stronger because the magic in our world — the Fae world, I mean — is different? So it stays on us like a cloak until it wears off, something about losing the connection over time.

"Regardless, we can hide everything but our tails, it seems. I usually wrap mine around my waist, like a belt, but when one isn't wearing clothes one can't really hide a bloody _tail_. Sometimes I, well, the glamour feels oppressive, and I have to take it off. It's... itchy, sort of, and tight, and just _terrible_. I'd feel like that before the original one wore off but I couldn't do anything about it. This one, if I can just be alone, if no one sees me take it off, well, it's an easy fix, isn't it?"

Both of them are silent. Neither quite knows what to say — Jaskier can't really explain more without any sort of direction, and Yennefer has no idea what to ask.

It is Yennefer who breaks the silence. "Thank you," she tells him, with a combined softness and firmness that do something funny to his chest. "It must have taken a lot of... trust, to share this, and I shan't betray it."

Jaskier actually laughs, softly. "I didn't think you would," he says. "I mean, what would you have to gain? But... I do trust you, even if it may be the stupidest thing I've done."

"I wouldn't say that," she says with a smirk. "I happen to know about a fair number of stupider things you've done over the years."

"Oh, sod off," he says, but there's no bite to it. He's relieved.

As they get back to bickering, they both notice a change. The omnipresent tension between them is gone. There's something real, an understanding, a _softness_ between them. They no longer suffocate in each other's presence. There has been a shift in their dynamic that neither of them mentions, but they are both thankful for it.


End file.
